


Night is White

by SilentAndStarving



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Badly Waxed Poetic, Blindness, DLC Concurrent, Gender Ambiguity, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Multi, POV Second Person, Pining, denial of pining, implied past relationship, really self indulgent!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5512982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAndStarving/pseuds/SilentAndStarving
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And how tired you are. How exhausting to be perpetually starved for his presence, to hunger for him like this, to follow him down dark paths like a trail of smoke. But this is always how it is - he will leave, and it is your destiny to follow, to hunt for him to the ends of the earth tirelessly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's taken me like 3 tries to post this and i still have no idea what i'm doing

 

The day you are caught is the same day you finally had enough of killing.

The air is heavy with salt and the stink of the river when Thomas drops you off near the docks and bids you goodbye for the last time. You paid off a deck hand to find you a spot on the ship just last month, and you hope the deal is still good. 

“I suppose this is it,” Thomas says. His voice is muffled by his vapor mask and you can’t make out the tone of his voice or what point he is trying to get across. Over the years, he became better and better at hiding himself. Or maybe you’ve become worse and worse at reading people.

“I suppose so,” you reply as you step out of the boat and onto the muddy bank. You take off your own mask and toss it back into the boat along with your jacket. 

He reaches behind him and pulls out your bag. “It’s still not too late. I doubt they even realize we’ve left,” he says as he hands it to you. You accept it gratefully, but you pretend you didn’t hear him. 

Instead, you say, “I’m very glad to have met you, Thomas.” You are sincere, too, because he is the only one you trust with your act of dereliction. He nods and pushes off with his oar. You watch him drift away. 

The ship in question is a whaling trawler named Dartmouth, a metal behemoth on water. It is one of a handful of ships still allowed past quarantine. You meet your deckhand on the docks and he fidgets with nervous energy when you approach. Silently, he guides you onboard, careful to avoid attention and suspicion. You make you way across the deck, marvelling at the massive steel rigs overhead for leviathans hauled from deep underwater. You remember seeing one in use, a whale secured to it by hooks on your trip along the Isles. It made absolutely pitiful noises through the night while the sailors celebrated their victory. You could hear it wailing over the men from below the deck. 

"What do you do with a drunken whaler?" They sang, voiced fueled by ale and the promise of more once the ship docks and they are paid for their catch. “Feed him to the hungry rats for dinner, slice his throat with a rusty cleaver, stuff him in a sack and throw him over, early in the morning!”

It sounded particularly morbid with the moaning and bellowing of a dying whale. Beside you, he was asleep like the dead, paying no mind to the noise. He used to be able to sleep through anything, but you aren’t so lucky. 

Now the deckhand motions to a hatch, lifts it open on its rusted hinges, and waits for you to climb. You throw your bag down first before descending. “You said a week at most, right? I’ll be in Morley by then?” you ask before he can close the hatch. 

“Yes, yes, but you better hurry.” He nearly slams it down on your head in an effort to get you to climb faster. “Please get inside. It’s over for the both of us if we get caught.” 

“I paid you enough coin for at least an answer before we depart.”

He relents, but only barely. “A week and some change if you’re lucky. If they don’t find you before then, that is.”

It isn’t exactly the week you thought you are paying for, but you’re in no position to argue. You retreat before he can catch your fingers when he hastily shuts the hatch and locks it. Sailors are very peculiar when it comes to the sea, so you chaulk his strange behaviour to superstition.

When your eyes finally adjust to the darkness, you realize you are in the cargo hold. Nestled between damp wooden crates and empty oil tanks, someone left blankets and pillows, along with a tray of stale bread, old cheese, and a stack of tinned jellied eels. A few fat candle stubs litter the ground at your feet. You can hear every footstep and muffled conversation on the decks above, and you wonder if you’ll be able to sleep at all.

You drop your bag at your feet and all but collapse on your makeshift bed. For now, the noise doesn’t bother you - you’re too tired from the tense boat ride the night before. The journey by river meant that you could be seen by anyone else who chose the same route. The other option was by the gate that led through the sewers, but you did not have the key. Either way, you didn’t do it alone: Thomas piloted the boat while you kept watch. He said you had the best sight of anyone. Your getaway took weeks of planning, but now it’s all over and you are safe. All you need to do is wait for your ship to dock in Morley and all this would be behind you. You relax at this thought, and soon your are in the pleasant state of half-asleep, half-awake. You hope you will be far away from Dunwall when you open your eyes. 

When the hatch opens again, violently this time, you jolt awake fully. Heavy black boots come into view first, followed by black uniforms with golden embroidery. You recognize them immediately. 

The Overseer drops down the last few steps of the ladder and carefully scans the hold. His hand hovers at the sword on his belt when he sees you. He is followed by two others who take their places side-by-side behind him. Their golden masks scowl at you, true expressions undecipherable behind them.

You’re calmer than you think you would be, and this fact surprises you more than the deckhand’s act of betrayal. More likely than not, he sold you out for an extra ration of elixir. Who wouldn’t? And isn’t that how it always is?

The one in front, their leader, wordlessly tips over your bag with a kick and the contents spill out: clothes, coin, and charm (also tucked away in a hidden compartment, a dagger, but in Dunwall it is exponentially less damning than the charm). He ignores all but the bonecharm and it hums in his hands as he picks it up. You made it especially for this occasion, to ward off bad luck and to bring safe travels.

Once a whaler told you that you have the luck of a Kaldwin and others tactless enough to find it funny started repeating it. They were joking, of course, but you didn’t laugh then and you certainly aren’t laughing now. You don’t know why you remember this of all things.

The Overseer inspects it and nods. The others surrounding him spring into action, and you hear the music box overhead before you see it.

Did you resist? Did you fight? Most likely, but you barely remember. There were emotions of fear, panic, and anger - standard ones for these types of situations - but no actions to communicate them further. Was this how she felt when the whalers came for her and her daughter? You’re conscious again when the Overseers drag you through the streets towards Holger’s Square. You catch a glimpse of Benjamin Holger’s severe face, glaring down at you from its perch atop a stone obelisk.

Now there is carpet beneath your feet, lavish velvet curtains, marble floors. Double doors, metal bars, blinding lights. Your breath catches when they start up the music again. It feels like glass shards behind your eyes, deep in your brain. You can't even think. 

No poison needle to save you now - you left that behind.

 

 

It was years ago, but you still remember. He took you with him because you possessed an uncanny knack for finding shrines and runes tucked away in hidden parts of the world. You went because there was nothing else for you in Gristol. 

The two of you set sail on the icy decks of whaling ships, and stowed away in the holds when you didn’t have enough coin. 

A mistake you sorely regret was visiting Tyvia in the winter. Whether it was your idea or his idea, it didn’t matter - both of you are good at bad ideas anyway. That winter was particularly brutal and he suffered the worst of it, falling ill with a cold in the month of Seeds. You survived solely on tins of potted whale meat and the occasional bottle of wine for morale, and it isn’t until years later that you could stomach whale again. The bone charms there were most unusual, carved into tusks of seals hunted from the frozen coast. Shrines were tucked away and made perilous in caverns of ice. You time here was short to say the least, because as soon as the sea thawed enough to allow passage again, he made sure the both of you were on the first ship that left.

The best idea was spending a summer in Serkonos. Then summer turned into fall, then winter, then spring. Before you realized, it was summer again and you still didn’t want to leave. By that time you took up residence in the small seaside towns Serkonos was known for, visiting a handful of shrines dotting the coast. Unlike Tyvia, the weather was always warm. Every day was sand, sea, and the open sky. Seagulls overhead and seaweed around your ankles as you waded through warm waters. 

Between the two of you, you were the odd one out. You had a painfully obvious accent while he did not. He was born in Serkonos after all, and spent his childhood between cities. You made him promise to take you to each one, and you’re still holding him to it. 

Finally, your destination was Morley. You remember those times fondly, even though you remember very little. It was here where it finally happened, where the Void opened up and swallowed you whole.

You remember those eyes, dark and endless, like awls that pierced flesh. You knew those eyes would outlast you, outlast the empire. Those eyes promised power and great things to come. You remember the day the two of you returned to Dunwall: both worse for wear and both bearing the same terrible mark on your hands, hidden under thick gloves as though it were the only remaining evidence of a conspiracy from distant lands. This was a secret between you and him. 

Shortly thereafter, he began assembling his team of misfits, of thieves, cutthroats. and murderers. He bestowed his powers upon each one, gifting a small piece of himself to those who were able to use it. Those who weren’t made sure to be proficient with knives, arrows, and poison.

Your gift was much less deadly. Instead of powers of agility and destruction, you could carve ancient sigils onto bone, create singing charms that grant everlasting power, and produce enough to outfit a small army of whales. The black-eyed Outsider made sure you were a propagator of the Void. 

Then you met Thomas. 

Once he found an audiograph player in one of the rooms and gave it to you. Every so often, he would bring back recorded sheets, and the two of you listened to them. Usually they were account records from the old financial district, but sometimes you came across music and recordings more personal in nature. The former was more or less the same each time: violins and harpsichords as they are popular with nobles wealthy enough. But the latter was far more interesting. There were confessions of infidelity, murder, and transgressions so vile they cannot be repeated. You liked these best of all. 

That room was filled with knickknacks he collected. First it was the audiograph player, then it was a painting of a lighthouse on a rocky cliff overlooking storming seas. He ripped it from the walls of an abandoned manor after you told him how much you missed your time traveling the isles. You think he knows you better than anyone else. 

In return, you made special charms for him, carved from whale bones and wolfhound bones and human bones, nearly splintering apart from all the sigils you whittled into the surface. They promised strength, courage, and most of all protection, a luxury in this line of work. Another thing you liked about Thomas is he never asked you where these bones came from. 

More and more whalers began appearing. You’ve been making charms for them, too. 

 

 

Now the otherworldly music is so loud it is hard to think, but you can still see it in your mind's eye: the long stretches of sand and sea, the red sunset. Then you feel it, sizzling iron, red hot on your skin. You scream, but in your mind you desperately cling to seagulls overhead and seaweed around your ankles. 

The mark on your hand burns, too, with matching intensity.

Beware the Wandering Gaze; it is the first of the Seven Strictures, so they take your eyes your first night in the interrogation room of the High Overseer’s Office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changed the title bc it was long and weird lol 
> 
> oh and thanks for the kudos!

 

When you spent that short winter in Tyvia, you would have nightmares about waking up to a dying fire, and you were utterly and totally alone because he left while you were sleeping. In those nightmares, you knew that he was already on a ship, eagerly bound for anywhere else. And who wouldn’t be, when the other option is a long, bitter winter and you? You would then spend many weeks by yourself, rationing out the remaining tins of food until it was all gone. You were constantly hungry and cold, and you slowly began to change, sprouting white fur and growing sharp teeth until you weren't human at all anymore. You would terrorize the coasts, hunting seals and humans alike, hunting for him. By that point, it was no longer a nightmare.

And now, in a sea of blinding white, you feel the soft carpet of snow beneath your feet again, icy air in your lungs, and the sharpness of your teeth and claws. His scent is still fresh in the air. Starving and desperate, you hunt for him, for his beating heart, prowling the endless tundra until he is found.

When you wake up, you wake up screaming. You are no longer beastial, but instead very human and very weak. Very hurt and very blind. Very scared and about to be very dead.

As your hands ghost over your face, you feel the sunken, tender skin of where your eyes used to be. There will be infection, no doubt, and a slow death once it reaches your veins. If the overseers want to kill you, they had better hurry.

Losing your sense of sight means your fear is heightened. You taste blood in the air and breathe in the animalistic stink of death. Someone somewhere is reciting the Seven Strictures, you can hear it faintly. You reach out with your hands, groping for anything to grab onto. You end up gripping cold, steel bars. There is straw underneath you, poking at your skin.

You start to understand when they drag you back into the interrogation room and shackle you to the chair again. They didn't plan on asking you anything, and they certainly did not care about what you had to say. A heretic is a heretic - the mark is proof of this - and the less there are in the world, the better. This was torture, then a merciful death, if and only if they were feeling particularly merciful, but that sentiment is rare of Overseers.

You feel the heat from the iron poker and you flinch away from its source before it burns you again. This time you don’t scream.

 

 

On your second night, before the Overseers can tear out your tongue (the Lying Tongue is the second Stricture after all), you feel them approach from rooftops away - some sort of arcane bond tells you so. The element of surprise will be most helpful, and you do not plan to waste it. It takes everything of you to keep from screaming out for help once the assassins reach the building. You can practically track their movements through the walls, and you know they can sense you too.

The Overseers, oblivious to this, continue on. One of them whistles, too, as he tightens your restraints. Much to your relief, the music box is no longer in the room once they realized it wasn’t necessary to subdue you. If fact, one of them said, it distracted you too much.

Their presence in made known when you hear the heavy sound of impact the Overseers make with the floor. More follow, before the room is quiet. The whalers have not lost their touch yet, no matter the rumors that flow through the streets.

Now someone breathes your name and orders another to untie you, and it all you hear from them for the rest of the evening. Their silence makes it painfully obvious that your transgression has not yet been forgiven. However, the sight of your injuries still stirs sympathy among them.

So they are more gentle when they undo your restraints and hoist you up by your arms between two whalers. You feel as though you are dying of thirst, but you do not dare ask in fear of spoiling whatever shred of compassion they are affording you.

You are relieved to find that the person reciting the scriptures has stopped, and more than that, you hope he is dead. Whatever was done to you has been a great injustice, fueled by the fact that you were the only one who felt any sort of remorse for the way things in Dunwall have played out. The last conscious thought you have is one of revenge, one which settles heavily in your mind. But once again, there are no actions behind this, no force that can drive you to pursue your hunger for blood and flesh.

Now they carry you back, lolling in their hold like a sailor his first day on land. And just in time, too, because the very next night, High Overseer Campbell is found in the same chair, branded as a heretic, cast out from the Abbey.

 

 

You remember only fragments of what comes next: the cool night air on your bloody face, the familiar sound and stink of the river, and the bittersweet relief you feel. Though you could not see, you can feel yourself drawing closer and closer to him. And soon you will have to face him.

Whatever stores of laudanum they stowed away for emergencies are brought out in thick glass bottles. You feel the bitter taste on your tongue when someone forces your mouth open. Soon, your thoughts fall apart and the pain crumbles away. Your body feels so heavy, weighed down by your thoughts.

The hands that touch you and bandage you are surgical and without overt compassion, as if carrying out a chore. Desperately, you want a kinder touch, you want to be held. Did your mother ever hold you? You must not remember. You are sure your thoughts are made foolish by the laudanum, but secretly you believe everyone craves the same thing. Surely not everyone has outgrown such sentiments.

When the hands draw back, done with their work, you are taken to your room. What a strange feeling, having left it so recently and then coming back so changed. The smell of your bed is familiar and you would weep if you weren’t so tired (this, too, you blame on the laudanum). Before long, you fall into a deep sleep - dead, yet alive.

 

 

There is stillness first, a vision of white snow that blankets the ground, undisturbed as it stretches as far as you can see. You can hear nothing else save your own heart beating, the sound of blood working its way through you. You feel the power behind your hands as you clench them, sharp claws digging into your palm. You feel him, too, and your body goes rigid, tense with energy.

When you take off, it is on all four limbs, your legs and arms struggling to keep up with your body’s momentum as they kick up snow behind them. You are drawing closer, diminishing the distance between you and him, body roaring with life and, and-

"You must understand," Thomas whispers fiercely. The suddenness of his voice startles you awake, but your body is too slow to react.  "I never compromised you. Someone found out and tipped them off. But believe me when I say _I never compromised you_."

The headache is back in full force, and you feel as if the bandages around your head were tight enough to be a vise. You are not sure how long you’ve been asleep, but your mind is still reeling from your dream, and your heart beats loudly.

Thomas gives your shoulder a squeeze for assurance and disappears, and it satisfies your craving for human contact only briefly.

For a while, you float in the dark space of the room, feeling rather than seeing, ruminating on what has passed. Thomas’ reassurance of his loyalty was unnecessary - you knew from the start that he would never betray you. He was willing to do anything for you, under the stipulation that no harm may come to his master.

It’s not hard to know how they found you. Reports of captured whalers never fail to make it back to base, and are ammunition for rumors and gossip. Normally, the prisoners are left to the Overseers, their death as punishment for their failures.

You can feel your body waking, keeping pace with your thoughts. You flex your limbs under the sheets, feeling the coarse threads as you pull yourself up and rest your head against the headboard. Your wits are about you again, and the burning question you have now is why they chose to save you. You’re no longer useful for producing charms anymore, not without your eyes. What else can you be good for?  

Now your door opens again, and this time you are awake to hear it. Your head snaps to the direction of the sound, out of instinct to see who is it.

“Thomas?”

“Just me, unfortunately,” Daud says, coldness evident in his voice. You shiver at the chill of it.

Despite the fact you have been preparing for this exchange, you still were not ready for this talk with him, with his voice like Tyvia.

You hear his approach, the slow, measured steps he takes. Smell the salt water and cigar smoke on him.

“You should have said something,” he says. “You didn't have to sneak around like a rat.”

You must have known that. And yet.

Blind and inept, you feel like a newborn child, struggling to articulate yourself. How could you tell him that you knew better than to do that in the first place? And how could he expect you to, when you haven’t been honest with each other for so long? In the end, you reason that it is better to not say anything at all. He takes your silence to be disobedience, and is immediately furious.

“This mistake has cost us, not just yourself, though I’m not so sure now. I risked my men for you, and I want an answer. What did you tell them?”

How easily he separates you and them; his people, and then you. Not long ago, when he still had an appreciation for the Outsider’s gift, this whole matter would have been laughable. Not long ago, he granted you importance and trust. What changed?

Nevertheless, his statement dredges up indignation that breaks whatever cold hold he has on you. “I didn’t tell them anything,” you say as you point your face at him. “Didn’t have a chance to. And what if I did? What would you do then? Would you finish the job they did not?”

“I would only if I wanted to put you out of your misery,” he answers levelly. “The way I see it, you have a few good weeks left before the infection kills you. What I do won’t matter, will it?”

 Oh. Right.

Your finger make their way across your face, and find the bandages damp with sweat and blood. He’s right: a few good weeks at most.

“Well,” he says, voice receding, “I hope this is what you bargained for. Not exactly a good bargain, but what do I know?”

What you bargained for? What does he think you have for leverage? Your loyalty and integrity for freedom and comfort, for a way out of this wretched city, crumbling on its foundations? But fate decided that it wasn’t enough, and it wanted more than just your principles. You didn’t believe in fate (at least you didn’t before him), but now things are different.

And you didn’t do it because of him. You weren’t running from him, running because things changed and he changed and you were the only one unchanged.

Except now you _are_  changed. So what was the point anyway? It was a rotten bargain.

Now, he speaks from the door, already halfway out of the room: “Thomas will see to you. Tell him what you need, and he’ll make sure you are comfortable in days to come. And if it’s any consolation, you won’t see me again.”

“Why did you do it, Daud?” Your voice eats through the distance.

“I’m asking that myself.”

And he’s gone, leaving you alone in the void, alone with your thoughts. And you could not stand to be alone with them - you have to do something. To lie in this room that is no longer yours would mean to stagnate, to suffocate. You would be imprisoning yourself here, until you wither away and die. There is a burst of energy, of vitality from within that you have not felt in what feels like years. You couldn’t help yourself now; your treacherous body sits up on its own accord, unattached to you, and slips out from underneath the covers. It takes step after rebellious step, from memory of the countless journeys it once made though this building, until it deposits itself outside on the haphazardous steel scaffolds.

Did it mean to throw itself off? Did you mean to?

And what if you did? Curse it all - nothing you do will make a difference anyway. It hasn’t in the past and it won’t now. You might as well go on your own terms. And never mind what happens later; this is the first time in a long time that you feel any semblance of control.

You can feel the wind whipping through your hair and clothes. You must be very high up, and if your intuitions are right, this is exactly where you and your body want to be. And, if you are lucky, the roads below are flooded. Ever since this district became your new base of operations, it has been flooding on and off. Something to do with the Wrenhaven and how the barricade holds. It doesn’t matter, because you smell it now, the stench of salt and of the river.

You feel yourself teetering on the steel precipice when you hold your breath and the plunge into the flooded streets below.

 

 

You wake up as if from deep sleep. Around you, time is stopped. Nothing moves except the beating of your own heart and blood through your veins. It’s jarring to be able to see so vividly again.

There is nothing here but for you to cautiously navigate the landscape which shifts constantly in response. And you do so until your body seizes, held in place by some force unseen.

 _Hello_ , he says with his obsidian eyes. _I see you took the gift I so graciously bestowed upon you and decided to throw it all away. I always thought you were smarter than the rest, but I’ve been wrong before._

You haven’t seen him in years, not since Morley. You want to speak, to curse his name for how things have played out, but he has no name and those words are trapped in your throat. Something won’t let you open your mouth or move at all.

_So why did you do it? Throw yourself off into the gutters in front of the stone statue of our late empress? Did your blindness drive you to end it all? Or was it the guilt of those you’ve killed?_

Your mind immediately screams no, you’ve never done anything of the sort. You’ve never tasted the blood of another, felt the weight of a sword, ran the sharp edge of it against soft flesh. Your hands are clean, cleaner than most in these dark times.

He almost seems to reads your mind. _But you have killed, haven’t you? It doesn’t matter what you tell yourself; your efforts to stay above it all has been worth nothing in the end. How many have died? Have tasted the metal of swords wielded by your whalers? Their deaths fueled by the power from your relics of bone? You’ve turned into a monster long ago and you don’t even know it._

You remember the white tundra, blood heavy in the air, the thrill of hunt. Is he right? No, you push those thoughts back. Dreams are dreams. You’ve never hurt anyone outside of them.

 _Nevertheless, you are caught in a very interesting chain of events_ , he muses, articulating his point with a careless wave of his hand. _I'd be a fool to let my mark go to waste. No, I don’t think you should count yourself out just yet. I’ll be watching, and I’ll be expecting great things from you._

You feel an electric chill run through your body when he says that. It all falls apart when he sends you reeling. Darkness engulfs you, darker than night.

 

 

You feel the sudden rush of cold water enveloping you, and you instinctively open your eyes. This time, instead of nothingness, you see the dim rays of sunlight filtering through the ripples overhead. The mark on your hands burns, and painfully so. There is no sound save for your slow heartbeat, and you see yourself encapsulated by the darkness around you, only a sliver of light from above.

But there is _light._

An arm snakes around you and soon you break the surface of the water, sputtering and trying to draw breath. The next thing you know, you are back on solid ground,  

The first thing you notice is the fact that you can’t make out any of their features. Your newfound sight is not as powerful as what you had before, but you can see their shapes and you somehow _know_ that it is Thomas who is kneeling next to you, soaking wet. You somehow _know_  Lurk is keeping her distance, and you can sense her gaze from far away. And you know he is standing before you, too. You can’t bring yourself to look at him - at his shape directly.

The first thing everyone notices are your eyes, as dark and endless as the Void, like awls that pierce flesh.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changed tags and summary. at this point it's like a whole new fic lol, except the content of course. 
> 
> once again, thank you for the kudos, bookmarks, and comments!!!! <3

 

"That's him." You point and Thomas peers into his binoculars. “Blackford. It looks like he’s heading for his study. Third floor; mind the maid in the next room.” 

Perched high up on the roof of a manor in the estate district, you and Thomas have set up base to stake out your target. You never like making house calls, and the rain certainly does not help how cold you feel. Must be the anxiety; these assignments always make you feel so uneasy. Guilty, almost. 

“Amazing.” He whistles as he takes in the sheer size of the mansion. “You can see him from here?” When he orients himself with the layout of the floor, Thomas lays his hand on your wet shoulder, and transverses the distance between the two buildings. When he lets go, you are in a dark room, presumably the study. Even in the dim light from cloudy skies outside, you can tell everything about this room is pristine and official, from the signed and framed documents to the towering shelves of books and ledgers.

Your sight has improved drastically since that day; shapes started filling out, and details emerged from them. A darkness washes over everything, but special items with an affinity to the void stand out the most. 

So he stands out, too. 

If he knew how much attention you paid to him. He might pity you or he might feel smug about it, or maybe even a combination of both. But you can’t help it. His body shines out like balefire, like fields in Morley in the Month of Timber. And you’re always so aware of him, so painfully cognizant of where he is, and where he is going, mindful of his every move. You can sight him easily, pursue him anywhere. Well, not that you would allow yourself to - you just like to entertain the thought. 

But these thoughts do you no good. Your mind goes in strange directions these days. 

Enough about him and about pursuit; Blackford is heading your way. This you leave to Thomas, who already has his blade drawn. When the act of killing happens, you distract yourself. This time, it is with a particularly alluring painting, glowing white against the darkness of the room. Must be a Sokolov original for it to shine so bright. And like all things relating to Sokolov, there is more to it than meets the eye. 

Your fingers find the switch along the frame of the painting and flip it just so. Nearby, the sound of running gears rumbles through the wall, and the painting swings forward on hidden hinges. Blackford, you secretive bastard. You help yourself to the spoils: a coin purse and a humming bonecharm. What is it about the void that draws so many nobles, eager for blood? Or perhaps they come away with a newfound thirst for it. You never know. 

The purse you throw to Thomas, and he catches it with bloody hands; it’s worthless compared to the charm. Holding it close, you marvel at its simplicity. Unlike your densely-packed scribble, the carved sigils are flowing and sleek, still alive with powerful magic. You pocket it for good measure.

Though no one speaks of it, there are rumors of what happened to your beneath the waters of the flooded district, of how you emerged changed. For those who kept track of it, your death did not come. Whoever bet money on this must have been quite angry; you cheated death not once, but twice. Still, it is nice to think that someone else paid for your own doings, in a sense. 

And no one trusts you anymore, save for Thomas, and the division between you and them grows. But they are smart enough to know your skills are needed, even before this whole mess, when all you could do was carve bones. 

It used to be that some whalers would offer you small gifts in exchange for the bonecharms you tirelessly churned out - elixir, coin, even souvenirs from their assignments. You were grateful for them. Now, they have you on a short leash, sighting targets and traps. You have a feeling that they like to think of it as a way for you to work towards forgiveness for your past mistake. Strangely enough, you do not mind this forced act of repentance. One of these days, you’ll be sorry for being such a pushover. 

“Ready to go?” Thomas asks. He wants to return home to a warm meal, no doubt. Behind him, Blackford’s body lies lifeless. 

“Yes,” you say, and you brace yourself for the hand he’s about to lay on your shoulder, and the nauseating transversal to come. 

There are certain people who, after being exposed to magic, will develop a resistance to it. 

Like the whalers. Sometimes you can't read them. Most of the time there's too much smoke to see clearly. You get glimpses at best, small things like their names and where they are from, but it’s not nearly enough to really know them. The ones that don’t take to Daud’s gift are easier to decipher. You quickly learned which ones would kill for him, which ones would die for him, and which ones would run you through with a knife for the fun of it. So you are much more wary of the ones you cannot read. 

You like to think you knew Thomas before all this. For that reason, you tell yourself, it doesn’t really matter that he’s locked up tight like a puzzle - you would only be confirming what you already know. But in truth, you won’t look even if you could. You’re too scared you’ve got him wrong.

 

 

They come in the night.

You are asleep when it happens, but you had the good sense to sleep elsewhere tonight. If they found you sleeping in your room, they would have killed you in your own bed. 

Overseers have penetrated your secret hideout, the gleam of their masks and the assault on your olfaction tells you so. They must have brought their dogs with them.

So the plan is to find Thomas. You take your steps in liquid measures, sliding from shadow to shadow, until you reach the old commerce building, until you can reach his room. A sound from one of the abandoned rooms, reclaimed as storage space, catches your attention, and you can see a faint glow emanating from within.

You come upon them in the act, three of them stripping down the room, confiscating bonecharms and runes. When you see their black uniforms, golden masks, undecipherable expressions, you can’t help yourself. You hand, guided by supernatural precision, wraps its fingers around the hilt of your sword. 

You can feel energy course through your body, flowing to your arm, to the mark on your hand, and to the knife in your fist. You drive it through the back of first overseer’s head with strength that leaves you wondering where all this aggression came from. 

One draws his sword, and raises it in time to block your attack. But you are stronger somehow, and the force of your blade pushes him stumbling back, giving you the chance bury your weapon in the soft flesh of his stomach. Hot blood runs down your hands, rivulets if it dripping down your arms to stain your clothes. The smell of it makes you see white, drives you half-delirious with rage. 

The last overseer uses this as a chance to catch you unarmed, but he doesn’t know that your sword is only supplemental. You grab his fist before his knife reaches you and kick hard at his knee. His muffled cry provokes you, leaves you wishing for fangs to shatter bones and claws to rend flesh. Your free hand grips the cold metal of his mask and slams his head backwards into the nearest wall: once, twice, and again. He cries out, and you do not stop until he falls quiet. 

You’ve never killed a man with your hands but you suppose now is a good a time as any to begin. Funny enough, you used to be terrified of killing, of the regret that follows, but at this moment your only regret is that you were not able to personally kill those who took your eyes from you. 

Another one from behind, he must have snuck up on you, but you are faster than he is. You are on him in an instant, blood-slicked hands at his throat with the weight of your body behind them. The overseer topples over immediately, and you use your entire weight to keep him down. He grabs at you, pulling on your arms with growing desperation. You reward him by pressing your thumbs harder into his throat, and he thanks you with a choked groan. 

How you wish you could see his face without the golden mask, to see fear and anguish. If only you could make him feel what you felt. But footsteps approaching from afar put a stop to your thoughts, and you can see the ripples in the air made by the sound of boots against ground. They are close. No time for poetic justice, but perhaps that can come later; you can blind one of them and leave him to wander the flooded district if you so wish. For now, you must finish this one and move on to the others. 

You give him one last look, grant him the final vision of you and your eyes - you hope this stretches on through the infinity of his death. But he wheezes your name with precious breath, and your fingers go slack for a second. How does he know? Now it take no time for you to realize he is not wearing a golden mask at all. With mounting dread, you realize this is no overseer, this is just a whaler, just Thomas. 

You immediately loosen your hands from around his neck. He coughs, breath rattling in his throat, as you are wrenched off of him. You struggle at first, but stop when you see vapour masks. And no overseer in sight, but you can’t shake the vision from your mind.

“I am fine,” Thomas stutters, “I’m fine.” He explains through laboured breath that he saw you heading into the commerce building by yourself, and in the dark, you must have confused him for one of them. It is alright, you were only doing what you should. 

What lies, but the whalers have no choice but to believe him, content to follow his direction when Daud and Billie are not present. They let go of you, but they are still rigid, poised to strike if you make another sudden move. 

Daud approaches, and the crowd parts before him. When did he return? His eyes run you up and down, mouth scowling at your sorry state. “No more of this nonsense. We meet outside. Now.” 

Someone helps Thomas up, then they disappear one by one, until you are alone in the room.

At this point, you have no choice but to join them. When you do, you find that much of it has started without you. These things always do, but this time you feel you are owed the beginning at least. 

But this meeting is not hard to piece together. Someone led the overseers here, and you soon find out that someone is Billie Lurk. She stands before Daud for her confession, but when she sees your approach, she turns to look at you. 

“I told the Overseers about your trip. If you haven’t figured it out already,” she says. She looks so tired without her mask. She looks vulnerable. “You were a liability. And I couldn’t allow that.”

You shrug, but her words cut through you like a hot knife - like white heat from sizzling iron. Your feelings are hurt by her confession, and you scold yourself for still possessing the ability to be hurt in this way.

But how cruel. No, you did not figure it out yet, thank you very much. You were much happier under the assumption that you were betrayed for a simple ration of elixir. Anything more than that is just too much, because if you were forced to consider all the things that led to your stupid little twist of fate, then you would surely go mad.    


However, what happens to Billie is not up to you. It is up to Daud, and wordlessly, he sheathes his sword and lets her go. 

You heart clenches as you watch her retreating figure. How easy was that? You are half-relieved at the lack of bloodshed, half-jealous of it, too. Daud even grants you a scathing look to remind you, and you are immediately ashamed. But what can you do now?

 

 

The everyone in hideout is on edge today, and whispers about Delilah are especially loud. There is a bad feeling in the air. You figure it out fast: a new body occupies the space of the flooded district.

Before you can investigate further, you are summoned to the source of this matter. When you arrive, you are greeted by a small group of whalers congregating around her. It’s a somber meeting, and they part to allow you through.

A witch, one of Delilah’s, was caught sniffing around the district. A few men managed to subdue her, and now she sits in front of you, slumping into the chair that supports her. They must have given her something: her head is lolling as though she is half-asleep, half-drunk. No smoke to hide behind either. She’s awake only because her eyes are locked onto you. You can smell rage emanating from her.

“See what you can do,” Daud says from behind her. “Find out where Delilah is hiding.” 

Everyone focuses on you now, expectations palpable in the air. You're beginning to feel like you’re the one who is about to be interrogated; your face twists as you look Daud over. He’s as stern as ever, so you do the only thing you can: you pull off your mask and stare at her with your black, dead eyes. 

“By the void,” she murmurs weakly - unthinking, but nevertheless terrified - when she sees your face.

You see her time spent as a maid, and dismissed when she knew too much. Not surprisingly, she developed a distrust of nobles. She lived off the streets for a while, stealing so she wouldn’t end up like the girls at the Golden Cat. Then, a fateful day she remembers with reverence: Delilah. She came bearing a promise of refuge. No more stealing, no more running, hiding. Induction into her coven. An island, a manor, roses, ghost hounds that pursue you to the ends of the earth. 

You blink and it all dissipates like smoke.

Now the witch sits limp, head down and shaking. You dredged up a lot of forgotten things, it seems. You also wonder what it must feel like to be on the receiving end of that, to have someone sift through your mind. You grimace, feeling lightheaded and the beginnings of a headache. Your mask goes back on immediately when you notice people staring. Exhausting, no doubt, for both sides of this exchange.

“Don’t hurt her,” she murmurs into her lap, quiet enough so that only you can hear. “She saved us all.”

You ignore her, focused only on the name. “Brigmore. Out past quarantine. I can get us in, I think.” 

“We’ll need a ship,” he says. 

You don’t pay attention to the talk of logistics that follows. There’s a roaring in the back of your head. You can still see the island, the hounds - it’s  a vision you can’t shake. Delilah used every last bit of her borrowed powers to shroud herself and her coven. What she’s planning, you cannot say for sure, but the effort she exerts to hide away leaves you worried. 

The room clears without you knowing it, and Daud is the last to leave. “See me in my study,” he says, voice low. He doesn’t look at you when he says it either, which leads you to believe this meeting won’t be pleasant.

The witch waits for him to disappear before speaking again: “He saved you, too, didn’t he? You must understand.” 

You stare at her, this witch plucked from her coven, who made the grave mistake of straying too far from Delilah’s protection. Caught where she shouldn’t have been. You feel the urge in you again, the contemplation of violence, of restraints, white hot heat, blinding pain. A compulsion to act on it. But you are still yourself, and you don’t hurt her.  

Instead, you leave her to herself and her thoughts, a worse punishment by far.

 

 

When you visit him in his study, you make sure your face is slack, devoid of anything that might give you away. It’s embarrassing how long it has been since you’ve last spoken to him privately here, how you avoided doing it despite how much you crave his presence, and it’s even more embarrassing how long you’ve been keeping track. So you loom rigid with dread in the doorway, silent and starving like a dog with a scent, before you approach. You force yourself to keep from saying anything; you want to be cold as he is to you.

Oh, but he’s divisive like none other, and he won’t let you have it. He can wait for as long as you can, maybe more (and you’ve both waited years already). So you might as well expedite the process and say: “You wanted to see me?”

Daud takes the time to snuff out his cigarello, and makes no effort to acknowledge the fact that you two are alone with each other. “I can get a boat, get us to Brigmore,” he says after a pause, and you know right away the questions he will ask next. 

Did you see enough to know the grounds? Yes, you did. Can you find a way in the manor? Yes, of course. Everything he asks you can answer, because you’re so diligently obedient. You made it a point to be so in the past, before your reversal of fortune. But now you know something he doesn’t for once in your life - something valuable - and you do not intend to let this bargaining chip go to waste.

“I’ll help, but this will be the last time. When we return, I will be leaving.”

“If that’s what you want. Simple, isn’t it?  I’ll bet you wish you knew sooner.” 

Another lesson from him? How quaint, you think, and how stupid. “ I don’t need your permission. I didn’t need it last time, either.” This last part you add out of spite: “I did it to prove that I don’t need anything from you.” I don’t need you is what you really mean, but you know better than to say that. Still, your boldness surprises you. When did you grow a backbone?

“You did it to hurt me,” he replies, tone even, face level. Calm like white snow, blanketing the barrens of Tyvia for miles to come. “You think I don’t care.” 

Does he care? His words send you staggering, like you've been slapped across the face. You’re too stunned to believe that. You believed the opposite for so long, that slowly but surely there was an irreparable rift growing between the two of you. And you’ve been so distracted by your idiotic thoughts of longing and the denial of that longing that you’ve been blind even before you lost your eyes. 

But now without sight do you truly see him - worn down and a shadow of who he used to be, changed, but the same. Guilty like you.

You take this time to study his face, made vulnerable by his confession-in-a-statement. The slant of his nose, the full breadth of his eyes, the curve of his arrogant mouth. You are suddenly overcome by the desire to consume him, consume his heart (still beating and still tender, though unbeknownst to him). 

Restrict the rampant hunger and beware the wandering gaze. There you go again, breaking strictures by twos and threes. You might as well go down the list in order. 

He approaches you now, and you turn all but boneless at his touch, at hands that have done violence in Dunwall, at hands that have done kindness, gentleness in Tyvia, Morley, and Serkonos. 


End file.
